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Shakespeare's Monkeys

Infinite Monkeys. Infinite Typewriters.

More in Lost along the weigh

for what and other unspoken things

I dream of cinnamon bark
by a warm sea
in a distant land
where she can see
my soul with her eternal eye

I say her name like silence
under a red star
as winter becomes winter
and I cool in the dry air

she tells me, “Poetry
is enough.”

 

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